


that last kiss, i'll cherish (until we meet again)

by LadyAlice101



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BUT ALSO HAPPY, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Smut, Time Travel, and smut ofc, basically just 12k of jon and sansa being really fucking in love, but still kind of sad, canon compliant to the end of season 7, honourable jon snow, sansa's only goal is to protect jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 09:59:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11965056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAlice101/pseuds/LadyAlice101
Summary: Sansa finds Jon beside the Heart Tree, where he is dying. He is kneeling, blood dripping steadily and turning the snow red.She sits down beside him and takes his hand.“You are dying,” she says softly.“Aye.” He nods. “I am.”“And you are certain the cause is lost?”He doesn’t reply, only squeezes her hand. Eventually, he says, “You should have gone South.”She rests her head on his shoulder. “I will never leave you.”// OR: They lose the War. While lying in the snow, Sansa wishes for more time. The gods grant her wish, and send them back to the beginning.





	that last kiss, i'll cherish (until we meet again)

Sansa finds Jon beside the Heart Tree, where he is dying. He is kneeling, blood dripping steadily and turning the snow red.

She sits down beside him and takes his hand.

“You are dying,” she says softly.

“Aye.” He nods. “I am.”

“And you are certain the cause is lost?”

He doesn’t reply, only squeezes her hand. Eventually, he says, “You should have gone South.”

She rests her head on his shoulder. “I will never leave you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa wakes screaming.

Her hands desperately fly over the bed next to where she lays, crying, “Jon! Jon?”

The door to her chambers swings open, and she gasps loudly and scrambles back, unused to anyone entering without knocking, and triggering a fear that was instilled in her from too young an age.

The shape of the man looks like her brother turned cousin turned lover, and she chokes out a small, “Jon?” before another figure rushes past the first.

A candle is lit beside her and the two figures are illuminated. Sansa screams again.

Her dead lady mother, Catelyn Stark, rushes towards her young daughter and perches on the bed. Sansa flinches from her outreached hand, pressing her back against the headboard.

“Where is Jon?”

Her noble father, who she had watched be beheaded, kneels on the floor beside her bed.

“Jon, my dear Sansa?” he asks quietly. He lifts his hand to place on her knee. She jerks her leg away.

“Where is Jon?” she repeats, louder, forcefully, lifting her chin. Her breath is calming, the nightmares of Ramsay and Joffery and White Walkers fading, and her mind is becoming clearer.

Her last memory is of laying beside a dying Jon in the snow beside the Weirwood tree, a plea for more time falling from her lips as she fell into sleep.

She does not know why she is now in her bed, in her childhood room, her dead parents beside her, and she is frightened. She wants the one man who has been her only comfort for years, and she does not know where he is.

There’s a startled, “Fuck!” from the door, and Sansa looks up sharply.

“Jon!”

She slides from the bed quickly, and almost stumbles when her feet do not hit the ground when she expects.

Ned grips her waist to steady her and she steps out of his grip, snapping, “Don’t touch me!” then launches into Jon’s arms.

He is taller than her, by almost a head, and the last time she had seen him he was the same height as her. She knows his body almost better than she knows her own, and this does not feel like Jon.

But he whispers, “Sansa?” like he always does, and that is enough for her. His arms are strong around her back, and she buries her face in his neck.

“Are we dead, Jon?” she whispers quietly, not wanting the other two in the room to hear.

Now she is back with him, not panicked because she is alone and confused, she can think clearer. Knows she must hide her true thoughts from everyone but him, like always.

“I don’t think so, my sweet girl.”

She exhales against his skin. Whatever else is happening, she knows for sure this is her Jon.

“I think –“ He hesitates. “I think we might be in the past.”

She looks up at him. “What?” she whispers harshly.

“There is no snow outside,” he says quietly, eyes flickering briefly over to Sansa’s antsy parents, shifting uncomfortably on Sansa’s bed, and eyeing the two warily. He would worry they would interrupt, if he had not seen Sansa be so harsh on them. “I woke in my old chambers, not the Lord and Lady’s, and you are not in them either. The castle is as it used to be, not worn from Theon’s sack or Ramsay’s reign, or a long War. My body is not mine, and this is not yours. Your _parents_ are here, Sansa.”

She see’s the logic in his argument, and realizes the gods must have granted her last wish. “When we were in the snow,” she says slowly, “we were dying. You were dying. I would not leave you.”

He nods. “I remember.”

“I wished the gods would give us more time.”

Jon frowns. “Then why would they –“

He is interrupted by Catelyn. “No, this is _enough,_ Ned. It is improper! Jon, remove your arms from my daughter at once.”

Jon does so immediately, and it would amuse her that her mother still had such hold over him after having been dead for eight years and without seeing each other for three more on top of that, if Catelyn’s attitude did not anger Sansa so. She has spent too many years with just her and Jon for her to easily let anyone else matter.

But now Sansa knows what is happening, she cannot clue anyone into what has happened until she and Jon have had a chance to discuss what to do.

“I will handle this,” Sansa whispers. “Go.”

“Sansa –“

“I will not say anything. We will talk later. In the Godswood, after supper. Go!”

He looks about to lean down to kiss her, but she glares at him pointedly, her eyes flicking back to her parents, and then tilts her head towards the door.

“Alright. After supper.”

He turns and leaves her chambers quickly, and she turns back to her parents.

It is odd seeing them, and she doesn’t know how to act around them. She hardly remembers what it felt like to be the old Sansa Stark, to be happy and carefree and love her parents unconditionally, and she’s not sure how to pretend that she is, or that she even wants to be.

She hadn’t longed for her family in years. The only thing she’d wanted was the North to be safe from the Others, and Jon. The first she had lost a sennight before what she decides was likely her death, and the second . . . it had been many moons since she had seen Jon before he’d landed just outside Winterfell on a dragon, a deep wound on his stomach and news that the North was lost and that any that remained needed to evacuate to the South, or try to get to Essos.

Jon and Sansa had seen the fifty remaining people off from Winterfell, all supplies left in the castle along with them, Arya leading the way and Bran telling them this wouldn’t be the end for them.

Jon was too wounded to help. Sansa would not leave her love behind.

She remembers her mother needing reason and logic to let something go. Her father is much easier to please.

“Daddy,” she says, a soft smile on her face. Her father softens immediately, his shoulders sagging with relief. She steps closer to him, hesitant, but then throws her arms around his neck.

It’s comforting, to have her fathers arms around her, in a way she hadn’t expected. It makes her desire her mothers arms, and so she detaches herself from her father and moves into her mothers.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” she says sweetly, infusing regret into her expression, frowning in the way a little girl does when she’s not sure why she’s getting in trouble. Before everything, before they’d died, her parents thought of her as happy, if maybe selfish, and smart, if focused on the wrong things. But not cunning or manipulative, as she has grown to be. As she is now.

“What happened, Sansa?” Ned asks.

“Why did you run to _Jon_?” Her mother demands, and it makes Sansa’s heart harden to ice. She knows, of course, that Catelyn and Jon’s relationship was non-existent. That maybe even her mother had despised him. That she herself encouraged and accepted it, when she was younger.

Sansa could pretend to be a lot of things, pretend to be okay with a lot of things, but the one thing she would never accept is someone belittling or being rude about Jon.

“I’ve been having nightmares,” she says, tears welling her eyes. She hasn’t cried in years, before Jon arrived on Rhaegal. It is surprisingly easy to conjure them now. “Jon was walking by my door the first time, and was worried that I was in trouble. He has been helping me.”

It’s hardly a lie, and so it’s easier to sell, not that she is ever particularly worried about people not believing her. Lying is something she wishes she didn’t have to learn, but that she excels at.

“In your chambers?” Catelyn asks, disapproval in her tone and on her face. Sansa remembers admiring her mother. Once, she would have scrambled to fix this, to assure her mother it was nothing, but now she can only think Catelyn should be focused on the fact that Jon is _helping._

“I usually go to his, actually.” Her voice is slightly clipped, the tone she usually takes when she’s addressing her people in the Great Hall as Queen in the North. She cannot help but adopt it now. “Sometimes we walk around the Godswood, or go riding.”

She adds the last one purposefully, because while it may have been true and easy to do back in their time, it would be difficult for Catelyn to accept she and Jon had managed to do such an activity and have no one know.

Sansa is no longer surprised at the spite that her love for Jon can bring out in her.

Catelyn’s face does not hide a single emotion, her confusion and disgust evident on her face. Sansa sighs.

“You needn’t worry yourself, Mama.” Purposeful, again, because now her mother will relax against her; yes, there it is.

“What are your nightmares about, Sansa?” Her father asks gently.

Sansa hesitates, then sighs and looks away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She does not have to pretend to be scared, pretend for her voice to tremble slightly or for tears to gather. She is glad in her previous life her parents never knew the fate that befell her, and she would like to keep it that way, especially if she can change it’s course now.

Her father rubs her back and her mother wraps her arms around Sansa’s shoulders, and Sansa let’s herself feel a love that she hadn’t experienced in years. It’s nice, and it makes tears fall from her eyes.

She _has_ missed them.

 

* * *

 

 

Her day is long, but easy. She forgets several times where she is supposed to be, and often times finds herself on her way to a part of the castle that she has no need to visit now she is three and ten again.

When she remembers she does not need to worry about how to feed those remaining in Winterfell, or how to get supplies to the Wall, or whether this will be the time the sun does not rise, or if it will be too cold tonight for any to survive, she is relieved.She will stop where she stands and smile and then turn around to go back to menial tasks, like going to her sewing group and listening to the castle gossip, or her following her lady mother around in her tasks.

Catelyn is wary of her all day, so Sansa makes sure to act petty when Arya plays with her swords instead of joining them, and turns her nose up the single time they see Jon during the day. It seems to satisfy her mother.

At supper she sits as far from Jon as possible, and does not look his way once. She feels his eyes on her continually, and it breaks her already shattered heart to deny him even such a small thing.

Finally, after their plates have been cleared, she looks to him discreetly. He does not miss it, for how intently he had been looking at her.

She inclines her head, and he nods his head slightly in return.

“Mother, Father, I find myself slightly unwell,” Sansa says during a slight silence. “If you do not mind, I wish to retire for the night.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?” Ned asks, worry making his brown crease. Sansa knows it will take some time to reassure them this morning was a once off.

“No, father, I will be alright.” She stands with the grace of a Queen, something that is so ingrained in her now she will never be able to stop, and nods goodnight to her family.

She waits almost a half hour in the Godswood before Jon joins her. She does not mind, as the summer air is nice even though it is now nighttime, and it is peaceful to be back here. The light from Jon’s lantern alerts her to his arrival.

He sits down beside her, and takes her hand in his.

“What are we doing here, Sansa?” Jon sighs, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it gently. “What do the gods have in store for us now?”

She smiles bitterly. “We are doomed to never die, it seems. To live a life that gives nothing but sadness.”

Jon looks to her. “It is worth it, if I have you,” he whispers.

She turns to face him, too, a passion igniting in her that only Jon ever brought out. She places her hand on his cheek, then leans in to kiss him slowly. When they break apart, she lays her head on his shoulder, staring at the face of the Heart Tree.

“That is . . . an odd feeling,” Jon admits.

Sansa agrees. “You are like you, but you are not.”

“In my mind I am twenty and seven, and it feels as though I am preying on a young girl of ten and three.”

Sansa laughs quietly. “I would be happy to show you that I while may look to be a child again, I am most definitely not in skill.”

Jon groans. “I know your skill, Sansa Stark, and I long for nothing more than to be inside you.”

Sansa shifts where she sits on the ground, a burning need deep her in gut. At least that has not changed. “I sense a but coming.”

He sighs. “But we must act differently, now. I have every intention to marry you again in this new life, but we must not compromise your perceived maidenhood. People cannot catch you with me, in a romantic manner or not. _Especially_ because they still think me your half-brother.”

She frowns. She knows he is right. “I agree, no matter how much it pains. But I will not wait years for your touch, Jon, you cannot dare starve me in such a way.”

He laughs. “Shall I petition for your hand this very evening, then?” he teases, kissing her hand again. “I’m sure your parents will wholeheartedly agree.”

She chuckles with him, but then stops.

“What are we to do, Jon?” she asks quietly. “Pretend we are from this life? Tell our family? Change the game from the shadows?”

He stays quiet so long she is afraid he has no insight whatsoever. But then he sighs and rubs his hand down his face.

She misses his beard. And top knot, if she’s honest.

“I do not know, my sweet girl.”

She had hoped for more, but has no answers herself, and so expects nothing else.

“Perhaps we think on it for a couple days, and then reassess?” he suggests. “We always draw up the best battle plans when we think separately but finalize together.”

She nods, and tries to keep to the sarcasm from her voice. “Alright, my love. Until then, we pretend we are young and carefree and have not experienced the worst of humanity.”

He presses his lips together. “Sounds achievable.”

They stay together for as long as possible, until their bodies cannot take any more tiredness, a fair amount less than what their minds are used to. Jon escorts Sansa to her chambers, habit and a need to be with her encouraging him to do so, more than any fear either have that she is unsafe in this time.

“By the way, I told mother that you have been helping me with nightmares,” she confesses, as they walk slowly through Winterfell’s walls. “That I go to your room, or that we ride together.”

Jon presses his hand to his mouth to hide a laugh. “That surely angered her.”

“Oh, it did,” Sansa agrees.

“You need not challenge your lady mother for me, Sansa.”

“I won’t tolerate any ill-treatment of you, darling, in this life or the next.”

He smiles down at her fondly. “We are pretending, remember?”

“I am always pretending,” she reminds him shortly. “But I will not pretend to do that.”

He squeezes her hand. “Thank you.”

They arrive at her door, and he looks down the corridors for any people, then leans down to press a sweet kiss against her lips. As he goes to pull away, she pulls him by the collar, kissing him more fiercely. He grunts against her lips, and grips her waist tightly, then pushes her back against her door.

She rolls her hips against him, and it brings him back to himself, and he breaks away, panting.

“Sansa,” he groans against her neck, pressing a light kiss against the curve of it. She sighs breathily, her hands wrapped around his neck loosely.

“Yes, my love?” she asks innocently, blinking up at him and smiling.

He steps out of her embrace, and she feels cold. Her disappointment must show on her face. She’s always been bad at hiding her feelings with Jon, especially after they became intimate and married.

Hesitantly, he says, “Perhaps . . . perhaps I should come in with you, in case you have a nightmare.”

She smiles brightly. “Yes, I think that is a good plan.”

 

* * *

 

 

They try their best to hide it. They do not come to any conclusion in their next meeting in the Godswood, only that they need to prevent the loss of their family, and save the North.

It is a dark conversation, that one. Jon likes to pretend that everything will be okay, that he can win any fight, he always has. Sansa always asks the hard questions, the one he pretends he hadn’t thought himself, and he always gets mad at her about it.

“Perhaps we should only save the North,” she says quietly, in the dead of the conversation.

“Sansa,” he says incredulously, shifting away from her.

“We need Daenerys, Jon. You only convince her as King in the North, which you will never be with Robb and Rickon and Father alive. You won’t even go North of the Wall in this time, so how do you propose to convince her of something you don’t ever do in this time? Without you, there is no battle at Hardholme, and so no one else to see the White Walkers. You cannot convince her as a lowly bastard of Winterfell. Or even – what will she think of you as a legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen?”

Quieter, she says, “We don’t even have reason to kill Ramsey, Jon, or dethrone Joffery. I love my family, I do, but are their fates worth more than the entirety of Westeros?”

Jon stands and walks away from her. She’s not surprised, but it hurts nonetheless. He still comes to her chambers that night, and apologizes into her hair.

“We just got them back,” he whispers. “I don’t want to be responsible for their deaths.”

She doesn’t reply.

“I am sorry.”

She sighs. “So am I.”

For all they have learnt, they are bad at hiding the change in themselves and in their relationship. Ned and Catelyn sit them down only a fortnight later, wringing their hands and looking very worried.

Sansa sighs and looks to Jon. He frowns and nods his head at her slightly. She narrows her eyes and purses her lips. He glares down at her. She crinkles her nose.

He wins.

Looking into Jon’s eyes, Sansa says steadily, “Jon’s mother was very beautiful, don’t you think, Father?”

Ned’s breathing stops and Catelyn gasps loudly, standing abruptly.

Jon squeezes Sansa’s hand, then turns to the pair. “Lucky the blood of Old Valryia is weaker than that of the North, Uncle.”

Silence reigns in the room, until Catelyn demands harshly, “What is going on?”

Ned cannot get over his shock enough to speak.

“Rhaegar Targaryen is my true father,” Jon reveals. “Lyanna Stark my mother.”

Catelyn grips Ned’s shoulder fiercely. “Ned.”

He nods slowly. “It’s true.”

“How could you –“

Sansa interrupts Catelyn by standing and biting out, “You can talk later. We have more important things to discuss.”

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, the decision is made for them. They reveal most to their parents, sparing them of the more gruesome parts of the tale. Of their marriage, too, because by the time they get to that part of the story, Catelyn looks as if she is going to die of shock and Ned cannot even muster the strength to close his gaping mouth.

Afterwards, Ned and Catelyn don’t leave their chambers for three full days, and by the time they finally emerge, Jon and Sansa have accidentally slipped into the roles of Lord and Lady of Winterfell. It happens so discreetly, that no one makes any comment or thinks its odd until Ned and Catelyn walk into Sansa’s solar and the two are sat at a desk, papers spread between them, Jon making battle plans, Sansa analyzing the food stores, and both writing lists of things that must and mustn’t change.

Ned looks over their shoulders, squinting his eyes. “I daresay they’re better at this than us, darling.”

Jon chuckles and Sansa smiles, but neither stop what they are doing. It is not until Ned picks up the page of musts and must not’s that they pause and look up.

Ned reads aloud. “Must: Ramsay. Theon. Going South. Joffery . . .” Sansa knows there’s more to the list, but Ned changes. “Must not’s: KITN. What is – oh. King in the North. Wildlings - south. Bran. Daenerys.”

There is more to that list too, but Ned trails off. “Why is ‘North of the Wall’ down the bottom and circled?”

Sansa turns back to what she’s doing. “We can’t agree,” she says shortly.

“Why?” Catelyn asks. “It sounded an important aspect. You need the Wildings to take back Winterfell, and help fight against the Walkers.”

“We won’t _lose_ Winterfell,” Sansa says sharply. She winces. She hadn’t meant to be so harsh. Softer, she says, “Besides, the dynamic would be different. Jon might be killed, and then all is lost.”

“Why would it be different?” Ned asks curiously. “Surely not taking the Black would only improve your chances?”

Jon sighs. “I gained their trust a very specific way last time. I would not be sure how to go about it again.”

Sansa looks down at her papers, and pretends to be more interested in them than the conversation as she says nonchalantly, “He fell in love with one of them, last time.”

Jon chuckles and leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his stomach. Sansa glares down at the table. “Oh,” he says, smiling, “are you jealous, then, my swe – uh, Sansa? Is _that_ why you don’t want me to go?”

Sansa presses her quill too harshly into the page, and it rips. She looks up and glowers at him. “ _You_ said you didn’t want to go. _I_ think it is because you are worried you will love her again, and do not want to risk it for my sake.”

His gaze softens and he reaches across the table to grab her hand. “Sansa, I –“

She pulls her hand back slightly, and his face falls. She looks to her parents pointedly, and she is relieved he understands that she just doesn’t want to discuss this in front of them.

Silence settles again, and both go back to their work, the only sound scratching quills and her parents’ heavy breathing.

“We have some questions,” Ned announces finally.

Sansa wishes they didn’t, but isn’t surprised.

Catelyn looks directly to Sansa and asks quietly, “Did you have children, Sansa?”

Sansa can’t help but scoff slightly. “It was hardly important, Mother.”

Catelyn sighs. “I had only hoped you had some happiness, darling. You children will forever be my greatest loves. I wished that for you.”

Sansa softens and leans over to grip her mother’s hand. “I was not fortunate enough to experience such a thing. Tyrion and I never consummated, and Ramsay . . . he was the vilest man I have ever met. I took precautions. And after we took back Winterfell . . .” Sansa purposefully avoids looking at Jon. She wants to, badly, and she knows he is looking at her. “I thought about it. But the time was never appropriate. Perhaps this time.”

Ned smiles slightly. “I shall find you a good match this time, Sansa.”

Sansa sits back, keeps her face impassive. “I think I should like to find my own match, father.”

He raises a brow. “Oh? Do you have a candidate in mind?”

She won’t lie and let her parents think they have an opportunity to find someone for her, when they don’t. “Yes. I married a third time. I will be marrying the same man again.”

She hopes they won’t ask, but it is futile and foolish and of course they do. If Sansa had her way she would tell them now, but Jon interrupts.

“It is getting late, perhaps we should retire and talk more on the morrow.”

She does not agree, but knows this is his way of saying he isn’t ready to tell them yet, so she agrees.

“Yes, I feel slightly lightheaded.” She knows that will turn her parents’ attention to that, and it does. They nod in agreement, and stand to retire.

Jon and Sansa linger, packing slowly so that they leave and don’t think it odd Jon is staying. When they should be long gone, Sansa stands and locks the door.

Jon is still sitting, frowning at the lists, but she drags his attention away by undoing the laces of her dress and stepping out of it. His eyes follow her as she walks towards him.

She perches on the edge of the desk and spreads her legs, propping her feet up on his chair, either side of his waist. He sits back, staring up at her with such an intense longing that the sparks already flicking in her belly ignite into a raging fire.

“I will wait no longer,” she announces determinedly. “You best help your dear lady wife, Jon Stark, for she is willing to take pleasure into her own hands if you do not.”

Jon is on his feet and spreading her legs further apart in a second. He leans in to kiss her roughly, gripping her thighs and pulling her hips to his. He rocks into her, and she gasps, leaning her head back. Jon takes advantage, and bites at her neck. She moans then presses their lips firmly together again.

Sansa pushes down on his shoulders, and he chuckles but obliges. He kisses down her neck, then over her chest. Jon pushes her chemise up her to hips, and she leans back against her elbows.

“Be gentle,” she rasps, “this body is a maiden.”

He chokes out a groan and she would laugh if he didn’t then press his mouth against her cunt and any noise was caught. One hand winds in Jon’s hair and the other goes behind her head to grip the edge of the table.

She whines high in her throat and arches her back. “Fuck,” she whimpers. “Yes, stay right there – _Jon.”_

She finishes quickly, her thighs locking tightly around his head. He laps at her slowly, letting her come down from her high. She releases her legs from his head, and slumps against the table.

He wipes his arm against his mouth. “That was faster than normal.”

She pants for several seconds, then says, “What happens when you make your wife wait.” She sits up and slips from the table, then takes his hand and leads him into her chambers, then towards the bed. “Besides, you will be worse, you green boy.”

He scrunches his face in disappointment. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

She smiles and lays on the bed, pulling him up and over her body. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to remedy it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, Jon has snuck away from training and Sansa has excused herself from her sewing group, and he has lead her down a seldom-used corridor near the Lord and Lady’s chambers that they had discovered the week before they married, three years before they’d been sent back in time.

Jon has her pressed against the wall, one of her legs hitched up against his hips and the front of her skirts bunched up at her waist. His fingers curl inside her and she whimpers. Jon’s hand comes up behind her head to protect it as she bangs it back against the wall in wanton abandonment.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he encourages against her ear, biting her lobe. “Do you like that, My Queen? Do you like feeling my fingers inside you, fucking up into you?”

She keens as he presses his thumb against her clit, and he smiles against her throat.

“Or perhaps you’d prefer my tongue?”

She rocks against him and presses down on his shoulders. He would chuckle if he weren’t so determined. He kneels on the ground before her, and grips her hips, pushing them back against the wall and then hitching one of her legs over his shoulders.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against her inner thigh, then turns his head and licks up her slit, before parting her folds and pressing his mouth against her clit. She gasps and bucks her hips, and he presses one his forearms against her belly to hold her still.

Jon works her and works her, until she is pressing her palm to her mouth to muffle her sounds. Her back arches as she peaks, but Jon is relentless, fucking her with his fingers and lapping at her with his tongue until she pushes his head from her thighs, shaking and weak.

Sansa slumps against the wall, and he winds an arm around her waist, holding her up, as he presses chaste kisses to her shoulder, neck, face.

Jon murmurs sweet nothings into Sansa’s ear, his fingers running and up down her waist as she clutches at his shoulder.

“I love you,” she whispers. “I love you so much. No matter what happens in this time, that will always be true.”

“Aye,” he says roughly, not as good with words as her. “For me, too, my sweet girl.”

She recovers soon thereafter, and smiles. “I love it when you call me your Queen while we’re fucking.”

He presses his lips to hers firmly. When they part, he says, “We don’t fuck, my love.” His lips curl. “Well, unless you’re in the mood to take it rough.”

She scrapes her fingers against his scalp, and then pulls gently at the hair at the nape of his neck. “Oh? What do we do, then?”

His hand curls around her slim waist, arching her against him. “We make –“

The door to the Lord and Lady’s chamber open around the corner, and the couple quiets immediately. They hear the sound of a woman giggling and then kissing, and Sansa parts her lips in a disgusted frown. Jon stares down at her fondly, then presses his lips to the crown of her head.

“It’s nice they love each other after all these years,” he says quietly against her hair.

Sansa closes her eyes and leans into him. “They probably love each other even more.”

Jon pauses, then says, “I love you more and more each passing day.”

Sansa leans up to kiss him, standing on her tip toes and cursing this short body. She much preferred when they were equal height.

They hear the door close then, and Jon waits a few moments before peeking around the corner.

“They’re walking away,” he tells Sansa.

She hums her understanding, and then slides her hand down his torso. “How about I take care of you, then?” she says demurely, looking up at him from under her lashes.

He groans, then kisses her firmly, pushing her against the wall. “You know I can’t resist that look.”

She spins them around so he’s against the wall, and then goes to get to her knees.

Jon grabs her arms and stops her, and she goes to ask why but he covers her mouth with his hand and then she can hear the sound of footsteps approaching.

Maybe they haven’t heard them, she hopes.

“Who’s there?” the voice of her father asks, steely and harsh.

Jon’s eyes widen in panic, and she quickly smoothens her dress and hair and then straightens his clothes.

She steps around the corner and smiles at her suspicious father.

“Father,” she says gently, “I’m sorry for frightening you.”

He chuckles, if a bit hesitantly. “What are you doing up here?”

“Oh, I was just looking around. I find that I sorely miss such large chambers, and I just wondered on the difference between then and now.”

He doesn’t look any less suspicious, and Sansa briefly realizes that no wonder he was killed; he cannot hide an emotion to save his life.

“The door is here,” he gestures the door beside him. “Surely it does not change that much.”

She clasps her hands behind her back and lowers her head, as if chastised. “No, it does not. I was looking in the room down this corridor. In the future, Jon and I use it as a war room.”

Ned looks troubled and frowns. “I’m afraid it has a rather plain use, nowadays. We use it only for storage.”

Nervousness flutters in her gut that he’s playing her. Is it storage? She would have no idea. She makes the decision quickly. He doesn’t seem to be lying, and her father is too noble to know how to lead her into a trap, and she feels guilty that she’d doubted him so.

“Yes, I saw,” she smiles widely, and tilts her head towards the door. “What are you doing up here, father? Surely you must have duties to which you need to attend?”

Her father’s face reddens and Sansa hides a smile, playing the act of an innocent girl of ten and three. “Let’s go down together, shall we? I’m sure you have things you need to do, as well.” He says instead of answering her.

Sansa smiles and walks to him, not sparing Jon a glance. She slips her arm through Ned’s, and they start walking down to the courtyard.

“Have you seen Jon?” he asks as they walk down the corridor. “I’ve been meaning to talk to him about him taking the Black.”

“No, I haven’t seen him, Father,” she says breezily. “Perhaps he’s down training.”

 

* * *

 

 

“We need to be more careful,” Jon says as soon as he enters her chambers that evening.

Sansa finishes undoing her braid, then turns to him. “Perhaps, instead, we tell them?”

He frowns, and leans back against her door.

“Your Mother –“

“Can say nothing,” Sansa interrupts, standing. “You must know – _surely_ , you must know, I would choose you over anything, anyone.”

He sighs and wipes his hand down his face warily. Slowly, he walks towards her, then bends down in front of her.

“Sansa Stark,” he quirks his lips up, and takes her hands in his. She raises her brows down at him. “Would you do me the honor of becoming of my wife?” He laughs slightly, then adds, “Again?”

Her mouth splits into a smile, and she falls to her own knees. As a husband, Jon fulfilled every wish she'd ever had for a life partner. And yet, it still surprised her when he did acts such as these, something so simple but that warmed her heart with its romance. 

“Of course I will, Jon,” she says softly, cupping his face then guiding him into a kiss. He wraps one arm around her waist, and holds the back of her neck with the other.

He uses his hands to guide her hips forward to straddle him, then uses his body to push her backwards to lay them on the ground. Her legs tighten around his waist as he rocks into her.

“I won’t make you choose, Sansa,” he rasps against her skin. “If your mother disapproves, I won’t make you choose between me and the future of our family and the North.”

She groans in disapproval. “Only because you know what I’d choose.”

He frowns, and buries his face in her neck. “Aye, I know what you’d choose. I think it’d be the wrong choice.”

Sansa pushes against his shoulder, and he sits up, and she does too. “I didn’t ask the gods to save our family, Jon. I didn’t ask them to change everything. I asked them to give me more time with you. Maybe in this new life we are supposed to run away together, explore the world! Arya always said Braavos was the best city she had ever seen. Why don’t we just – go to the Free Cities and – and – stop frowning at me! Maybe I don’t want to be Queen in the North, Jon! Maybe I don’t have it in me to go through this all again, to care about anything other than you.”

It’s the most selfish thing she’s ever said aloud. She’s thought about it sure, but then she would look at her family, at the beautiful Winterfell and realize it wasn’t about her.

And then she would be with Jon, and everything else faded away. The only thing that mattered was her and him.

He looks at her sadly, the weight of duty making his shoulders slump and his eyes droop. “Sansa . . .”

She purses her lips and looks away from him. “I know you will not. It’s alright.”

“I would give you anything,” he says solemnly, his hands folded in his lap. “But I cannot give you this.”

For a moment, just a moment, she let’s herself resent his sense of honor and duty, and wishes he would just pick her. It’s unfair, and selfish, because all he’s ever done is try to make her happy; he gave her Winterfell, he gave her a beautiful marriage, he gave her the North, and he gave his life to try and save her. She wishes she were more like him, more determined to fix what was broken.

“I only want what’s best for you,” she says, resting her hands on his shoulders. “And if you think that is staying here, and fixing the future, then I will do that.”

Jon presses a kiss to the apple of her cheek. “I will not let them marry you off to anyone but me, my sweet girl, but we have found a nice balance with your parents. We will tell them when we have a plan for what to do.”

“Okay, Jon,” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck and sighing against his lips, “whatever you want.”

 

* * *

 

 

A moons turn later, a knock on the door just as the sun rises sends Sansa and Jon into a panic.

They had been asleep, her back to his chest and his arm wrapped around her waist, their hands entwined. The quick rap at her door makes her jerk from her sleep, sitting up quickly and accidentally elbowing Jon in the face.

It wakes him up too, holding his face, muttering, “What the fuck?”

There’s another knock at the door, louder, followed by her father’s voice, “Sansa, I need to speak with you immediately.”

Sansa slips out of the bed, and Jon follows, not as gracefully. Sansa quickly gets her robe that was hanging over the chair in front of the fire, and ties it up at the waist, then sweeps her hair to one side. Jon is desperately trying to get back into his clothes, and Ned knocks on the door again.

Sansa wonders what he could be so desperate about that he cannot wait for the sun to properly be up. She opens the door a crack, just even to peek her head through. “Father, it’s very early."

He holds up a scroll. “Jon Arryn is dead.”

The smile immediately drops from her face. “Oh.”

“I’m going to wake Jon, and then we will talk.”

Beside the fact that Jon isn’t even in his chambers, it is now hardly the time to worry what her parents will think.

“Jon’s here. Come in.”

Sansa opens the door, but Ned stays in the corridor, his brows furrowed. “Jon is – _here?”_

“Yes,” she says shortly. “Is Mother with you?”

Ned steps into the room hesitantly, his eyes sweeping over her chambers and landing on Jon, who is standing awkwardly in the center, his hands clasped behind his back.

“No, I came straight here,” he says slowly, not taking his eyes from Jon. “Sansa, what –?”

Sansa crosses her arms and tilts her head back. “He’s my husband.”

Ned’s eyes widen, and his hands clench at his sides. He takes several seconds to compose himself, and Sansa can appreciate a man who doesn’t just speak what’s immediately on his mind. She’s impressed with her father.

“That may be so,” he says through gritted teeth, “but he isn’t here.”

“He will be,” she dismisses, then goes to sit at the desk.

His eyes flick to Jon, then back to Sansa. “Even if I approve,” he says slowly, “this is entirely improper.”

“Father, you didn’t even know before today. We have been here two moons, and Jon has slept in my chambers every night. No-one has a clue.”

Ned steps back as if whipped, and before he can say anything else, Sansa interrupts. “Jon Arryn is dead.”

“Fuck,” Jon breathes. “I thought we had more time.”

Sansa nods tersely in agreement. “It’s been a long time since this happened, but I remember you announcing King Robert would be arriving. I would put that raven a week after this one, which gives us seven weeks until he arrives.”

Ned comes and sits beside Sansa, drumming his fingers on the table. “I must admit,” he says, sighing warily and rubbing his hand over his face, “I wasn’t entirely sure I believed you. There were . . . extenuating circumstances,” his eyes flick over to Jon, “but I did not want to believe such terrible things befell our family. I almost wished you both liars.”

Ned sighs again, and rests his head in his hand. “But now I have this letter, which apparently is what curses such terrible things upon our family.”

Neither Sansa nor Jon has anything to say to his confession. Sansa isn’t surprised. If someone had told her such things, she may go along with it, but she would always plan for them to be lying.

“I hope that you have made a plan.”

Sansa nods tersely. “I would not ask you to deny the King his passage North, Father.”

He looks relieved. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

Sansa pretends that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want to.

“We hope that perhaps you can deny being his Hand,” Jon says slowly, walking towards them as well. He stands behind Sansa and seems to hesitate, but then puts his hand on her shoulder. She places her own hand over his, then narrows her eyes at her father, daring him to say anything.

He doesn’t.

“I hope that you have a contingency plan,” he says gruffly, his eyes flicking around the room. They land on the bed, the covers of which are haphazard because they had so quickly been awoken, and colour blooms high in Ned’s cheeks. He looks back to them quickly.

“If you must say yes,” Sansa says after several moments, “then we ask that you do not take any of us with you. I went to marry Joffery, which is _not_ happening. You took Arya last time in an effort to change her more wild behavior . . . and I think that is not a good enough reason for what happened to her.”

Sansa does not blame her father for what happened to their family. It was Littlefinger’s machinations that lead to their downfall, and Sansa knows this better than anyone.

But she will not hesitate to be harsh if it means that her family stays in Winterfell.

Ned nods tiredly. “Is there more to this part of the plan?”

Sansa looks up to Jon. They had discussed at length the pros and cons of letting events unfold regarding Bran’s fall. Neither Sansa nor Jon were sure events would unfold the way they did without Bran thinking he had nothing else to offer. But they were tormented by the idea of condemning Bran to such a life.

And, of course, they know what is going to happen. They have knowledge of eleven years into the future, and so it doesn’t seem right that they let it happen. But, they intended to change it all, and Bran had been so invaluable. They had needed his insight last time, and they think they will need it again.

“No,” Sansa says firmly, looking back down to her father. “No, that’s all you need to know.”

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, it is a mixture.

Ned still goes south, but he does not take a single member of his family. They say their goodbyes like he will die, but instruct him on what to do so that he will not.

“Protect our family,” Ned whispers to Jon as he hugs him goodbye. “Take good care of my Sansa.”

“There is nothing I will do better,” Jon vows.

As they watched Ned ride off, Bran in bed laying almost dead, Jon takes Sansa’s hand.

“We will fix it,” he tells her. “We will save our family, and you and I will live and to a ripe old age, with beautiful children filling the halls of Winterfell.”

They say their goodbyes like he will die, but instruct him on what to do so that he will not.

He dies.

 

* * *

 

 

Robb announces War. Sansa and Jon have never told him about where they are from, and do not do so now, but they warn him against the path he is on. They try, and try, and they beseech Catelyn for help, and even though she knows what will happen, she let’s Robb do what he needs.

“Your father is already dead, Sansa,” Catelyn says, her eyes hard. “We are already on the path. I will not be stopped from seeking revenge and ridding the Lannisters of the crown.”

“You are killing your son,” Sansa says.

“No,” Catelyn disagrees. “I am saving our people.”

“You don’t even care about the North!” Sansa shouts. She cannot remember the last time she lost control of her emotions; the last time she got this angry. She’s so furious she can hardly form a sentence, and she grips Jon’s arm so tightly he loosens her fingers.

“Lady Stark,” Jon says gently, stepping in between mother and daughter. “If you both must go, then please heed our words of advice.”

Catelyn nods shortly.

“You promise Robb will marry one of Walder Frey’s daughter in exchange for passage through the Twins. Robb married a foreign woman that he loved instead, and Frey allied with the Lannisters and killed you both for it. We advise that you avoid making such a promise, or, if you must, you do not let Robb break his arrangement. It will lead to far worse things than death.”

“Do you want to know what that is, Mother?” Sansa spits. “Do you want me tell you about how the Bolton’s sacked Winterfell after Theon? Do you want me to tell you about how Roose Bolton bought me for his son? Or maybe how Ramsey married me so he could he produce a strong heir? Would you like me to tell you about how he took those rights, Mother? About how he fucked me on Robb’s bed and then he would cut me up afterwards, but never my face, because Gods forbid he had an ugly bride!”

Jon places a hard on her arm, but Sansa powers on.

“Or maybe I should appeal to your sense of duty, considering you care _so_ much about the fate of the North. Do you want me to tell you about how they ran the grain stores down, how they killed those who didn’t kneel to them?”

“Sansa,” Jon says urgently, “that’s enough.”

Sansa looks down to her distraught mother. Guilt washes through her, and suddenly all the fight is gone.

She sits opposite her mother and rubs her forehead. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Catelyn doesn’t reply.

“We thought,” Jon says eventually, as the tension in the room threatens to suffocate them, “that Robb should name Sansa his heir.”

Catelyn nods. “Alright.”

Jon looks surprised, and Sansa takes her mothers hand. “Truly, mother, I am sorry. I should not have said such things to you. You are doing what you think is best, and I should not fault you for such things.”

Catelyn covers Sansa’s hand. “No, my sweet girl, I should apologize. It is hard, sometimes, to accept what you say. You have lived it, but here it is just a distant, horrible possibility.”

Gently, Sansa says, “If you do not heed our warning, it be will worse than a distant possibility, Mother. We proved it with Father’s death.”

Catelyn’s eyes screw shut and she nods tersely. “I will do whatever you ask of me.”

Still, Cateyn promises Walder Frey.

Still, Robb can’t keep those promises. He marries Talisa anyway.

He dies. So does Catelyn.

 

* * *

 

 

The week after Catelyn and Robb ride out of Winterfell, an army at their backs, Sansa wakes to wetness between her thighs.

She sighs then rises from the bed. Jon stirs as she is wiping the blood from her legs.

“Sansa?” he mumbles, sitting up on one arm and wiping his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“My first moon blood,” she tells him, standing to heat some water for a bath. “We will have to be careful so I don’t quicken with a babe.”

Jon sits up, then gets out of bed to help.

“Perhaps,” he says hesitantly, “perhaps we do not take precautions.”

She smiles sadly at him. “I will have a child with you,” she tells him, leaning over to run her fingers down his face, “I will have many children with you. But if Robb dies, I will need to be seen without weakness. If I am named Queen, I will marry you and you will be King, and then we can think about children.”

He sighs. “There will always be something stopping us,” he says sadly.

“But we have more time.”

A year later, Robb and Catelyn die and she is hailed Queen in the North. Meera and Jojen Reed appear to show Bran north of the Wall.

Rickon, Sansa and Jon are the only Stark’s that remain in Winterfell, and the very same meeting that Sansa is hailed Queen, she announces the true lineage of Jon. They grumble and cross their arms, and when Sansa announces her intention to marry him, they fall silent.

They are so shocked they have nothing to say, and so Sansa uses that to her advantage and moves on to the next item she needs to discuss.

She and Jon are married a fortnight later, and the Lords that are in Winterfell and not dead by the Lannisters hands see them wed under the Heart Tree. There is a beautiful feast, and Sansa even lets the bedding ceremony happen, when she did not the last time.

When they are finally alone in the Lord and Lady’s chambers, Jon takes Sansa in his arms in front of the fire, and they stand staring into it.

“Did we do the wrong thing?” he asks her, his chest rumbling against her face. She is taller now, but so is he, and she still hasn’t caught up to him. “Should we have completely changed this future?”

Her arms tighten around his waist. “Maybe.” She has nothing else to say, because she is unsure herself, and she will not lie to make him feel better.

That night, the first night of their second marriage, he takes her in front of the fire, sweat coating both of their bodies. He moves slowly over her, kissing her neck, their hands entwined. He spends inside her, and afterwards he lays his head on her chest, as she runs her fingers through his hair.

He falls asleep atop her, but she stays awake long into the night, her fingers combing through his hair. Sansa thinks that maybe they should have tried harder, maybe they should have told Robb, maybe, maybe, maybe.

But then Jon shifts on top of her, a soft snore rising from his lips, and Sansa smiles fondly down at him. She would not trade this time with him for anything.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon must go North. There is no other way to persuade the Wildings than to do it himself, they both know.

The night before he leaves, Sansa spends it trying desperately not to cry.

“I will not be able to bear it if you do not return,” she sniffs, her fingers playing with the buttons of his jerkin.

His own hands cannot stay still, running up and down her body, mesmerizing her curves, as if he had not already.

“I want you to spend inside me tonight, and I will not drink moon tea,” Sansa murmurs, and Jon’s breathing stops. He had not pushed for them to have children, per se, but Sansa knew he wanted it so desperately, more so than she did. She was too frightened to bring a child into this dark world, and Jon never insisted, but he longed to see her waist thicken with his babe, longed to hold their child in his arms and spend many a night without sleep tending to them, to watch them grow up with brothers and sisters and bring laughter back into Winterfell’s halls. Sansa had always had a reason to disagree, there was never a right time, with Winter well on its way and disaster after disaster befalling their family. “I want you to spend as many times as we can stand, so that you put a babe on me and when you return we will have a beautiful child.”

He kisses her soundly, rolling them over so she is atop him. He slips inside her and she braces her hands on his chest, her head tipped back. She rocks her hips over his, moans slipping from her mouth as his fingers press firmly into her thighs.

He sits up, their chests pressing firmly together, and kisses her, biting her bottom lip as he sweeps her hair to one side, the fiery tresses falling between their sweat slicked bodies and over his back.

Sansa wraps one arm firmly around his neck, the other hand caressing his cheek and beard as she opens her mouth for him, her hips rolling in a steady pace. He wipes the tears from her face as she comes, a steady stream of “I love you’s” falling from her lips.

He guides her through her peak, then flips them over and sets a faster rhythm, pumping into her as she cries out in ecstasy.

“I will come back to you,” he says against her skin, then bites into her shoulder.

She peaks a second time, and he follows quickly thereafter, grunting as he spills inside her. He rolls off her, panting, and she lifts an arm above her head to push her hair to the side.

“I miss your top knot,” she says thoughtfully several minutes later.

He laughs in surprise at her abrupt declaration.

“We have been in these bodies for five years and yet I am still not used to how different they are,” he admits, curling around her body.

When he leaves in the morning, she keeps her face impassive. It takes all her many years of training, but she does not cry in front of her people.

She does not fall pregnant will a child.

Jon does not die, and returns with an army. Sansa does not know what happened, but the moment he gets back he kisses her soundly, then takes her to the chambers and locks the door for a full day.

 

* * *

 

 

They keep a close eye on Daenerys’ whereabouts. They do not know when to contact her. They do not wish to wait to start the War as late as they did in the last time, in hopes the army will be smaller, but they cannot rush Daenerys’ journey. She needs to have as large an army as she does when she finally comes to Westeros, even if she does go mad from the power of it.

It is a fine line.

Finally, the day comes when news of Daenerys sailing to Westeros reaches their ears. They spend a long time discussing how they should convince her. It took too long last time, the months and months Jon spent on Dragonstone convincing the Dragon Queen to come North a waste of time that they no longer have.

“I will write to her to treat her North,” Sansa says one evening. “We convince her to come here, and you can ride north of the Wall and show her, much like during the Wight Hunt.”

“Or,” he says slowly, “I can go on another and present it her immediately.”

Sansa narrows her eyes at him, and takes a sip of her tea. “No, and that is final.”

“Sansa –“

“The only reason you survived last time was because she rode on her Dragons. You will not have such a thing to rely on. I forbid it, Jon.”

Sansa looks down to the table, to where she is already penning the letter she will send to Daenerys.

“ _Forbid_ it?” he growls. “You _forbid_ it, Sansa?”

The tone of his voice makes her sit up straight, a pleasured tingle running down her spine.

“You cannot dictate such things of me, especially with the fate of the realm in our hands.”

The tone of his voice makes her cross her legs, an ache between them she tries to soothe by rubbing them together subtlety. It is not time for that, they are having a serious discussion on what to do.

Jon notices anyway and stalks towards her, kneeling before her and pushing apart her legs.

“We decide things together,” he reminds her, his hand dipping under her skirts and running up her calf, then her up her thigh. The light caress of his fingertips makes her shiver, and she props her other leg up on the arm of the chair. “You do not decide for me, do you hear?”

“No,” she gasps, looking down at him. “As your Queen, I refuse to let you do something so foolish.”

He frowns at her then stands up. She whines at the loss of his touch, but he crowds her on the chair, his hands either side of her head and their noses almost touching.

“Did you not hear me, girl?” he demands, and she whimpers, closing her eyes, her back arching from the chair towards his body. “You do _not_ decide for me. Do you understand this time?”

“I don’t think I do,” she says lowly, her hands reaching out for him. “Mayhaps you should punish me for my insolence.”

He says nothing, but loops an arm around her waist then lifts her up. She gasps in surprise, her legs tightening around his hips instinctively. He walks them towards their bed, then throws her down. Before she has even stopped bouncing, his body is atop hers. He grips the bottom of her thigh tightly.

“I will teach you a lesson you won’t ever forget.”

 

* * *

 

 

Daenerys comes North with her whole retinue, as Sansa hoped she would. Sansa knows it is actually supposed to be a show of force and intimidation, but she will not be cowed by a Queen she knows to be mad and unfit to rule.But, for now, the North needs her army and Dragons, and so Sansa is glad that Daenerys felt the need to frighten them. It will be much easier to send them to the Wall if they are already all here in Winterfell.

Daenerys lands on Drogon, and while the lords can’t help but cower in fear, Sansa has seen them before. Jon rode Rhaegal into the Long Night. They are not scared of the beasts, and will not show Daenerys that they are.

If Sansa wasn’t so good at reading people, she would not see the flicker of fear that passes of Daenerys’ face at her and Jon’s united front. She wonders what Tyrion has told her of them, having never properly met either of them in this time.

She knew Tyrion to be kind man, but he cannot speak good words of someone that he doesn’t know. Warn her of the potential, maybe, but that is a discussion the Queen and her Hand will have to have after they realise they were wrong. But Sansa won’t begrudge him any information he has fed Daenerys, especially because it is likely all lies, and so puts them at an advantage.

Missandei presents Daenerys to the Northerners, and Sansa finds it more pretentious than last time. Jon shifts uncomfortably next her, and she smothers a smile. She hopes he regrets his tryst with her.

When Missandei is finally finished, no-one speaks for a moment. Podrick steps forward.

“This is Sansa and Jon Stark, Queen and King in the North.”

Sansa holds a hand up to stop him from spewing any more titles.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” Sansa says easily, stepping forward to greet Daenerys.

Daenerys’ eyes flick up and down Sansa, then move onto Jon. “Nephew,” she greets.

Sansa does not let Daenerys’ impertinence affect her; or, at least, show on her face.

“Aunt,” he replies, stepping forward as well.

Annoyance flashes across Daenerys’ face and Sansa hides her own elation. Sansa takes Jon’s arm, and looks at Daenerys. Whatever Tyrion had told her of them, it was obviously not true, because surprise is clear on her face.

“I’m sure your journey was long and tiring,” Sansa says finally, letting the awkwardness sit in the air. “I’ve had some rooms prepared for you and your party, Your Grace.”

Daenerys nods once and Sansa shares a look with Jon, and then Sansa turns to lead them through Winterfell.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, it is Jon that convinces Daenerys to ride north with him. She is hesitant to let Jon ride one of her Dragons, but he is so confident walking up to Rhaegal that she has no choice.

When they return, when the sun is setting on the same day, Daenerys is convinced. Her army is to march out the next morning, Jon and Daenerys leading them.

The war raged for four years last time. Their deaths are five years from now. Sansa hopes beyond hope that it will not come to that.

It doesn’t come to that. This time, they have not wasted any moments convincing people to fight. The Night King is still a year away from marching on the Wall, and so they catch him by surprise. Battle wages, but north of the Wall. Sansa and Jon plan for them to lose, but they do not.

The war is over within a year.

Sansa wrings her hands nervously, waiting in the courtyard. They’re due any day now, and the waiting is worse than the not knowing.

Rickon sidles up next to her, tugging on her skirts. “When’s Jon getting back?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, her hand resting on her stomach. “Any day now, little one.”

Rickon sighs and nods. “Arya beat me at practice again.”

Sansa looks down at him, putting her arm around his shoulders. “That’s because Arya has been training for many more years than you have. That’s all she did while she was gone. You have a long way to go until you can beat her.”

Rickon looks up to her thoughtfully. “When Jon gets back, will he teach me to be better than Arya?”

Sansa laughs. “Why don’t you ask Arya to teach you to be better than Arya?”

Rickon pouts. “She said no.”

Sansa laughs again, her joy too explosive to contain. She cannot believe that they have won, that going through all the heartache again was worth it.

“Run along, little one. You won’t get better by talking with me.”

She has to wait two more days for Jon to arrive. When he does, he is bloodied and weary, much like last time, but he only brings good news and he is not about to die. She rushes towards him, and he holds her around the waist, their foreheads pressed together.

“Fuck, I love you,” he says, smiling against her cheek.

He drops to his knees and presses a kiss to her stomach, his hands either side of her expanded belly.

“Hello, my sweet winter child,” he says against her belly. “I am so glad I didn’t miss your arrival.”

“Sam says I am only one moon away,” she tells him as he stands back up.

Jon’s face lights up. “Same made it down? I worried he wouldn’t believe that he would be valued here at Winterfell.”

Sansa smiles. “He believed you,” she says gently.

He sighs in bliss, then nuzzles into her neck.

“Jon!”

The shout from Arya makes them break apart, and Jon collects Arya in his arms and twirls her around.

Sansa watches them, fondness in her heart. Someone comes to stand next to her, and Sansa turns to see Daenerys beside her. Sansa puts a hand over her stomach and braces one against her back, the aching making her more exhausted than anything.

They hear Rickon shout in joy, and he joins the hug as well, jumping onto them both, almost knocking them to the ground.

Sansa can’t look away from the sight long enough to speak with Daenerys.

“I’m going to give the North independence.”

Sansa starts, turning to her. She scans the other Queen’s face, unsure of her sincerity. They hadn’t won, last time, and so had never had a final discussion on who would rule the North, but Sansa knew it had been difficult to even get her to consider the possibility. Sansa knows that last time, madness befell Daenerys during the war, and she hopes that perhaps this is something else that had been fixed in this new timeline. 

Or perhaps Jon had better diplomatic abilities than she had thought.

“On behalf of the people, I thank you.” Sansa wonders if it is too bold to take the Queen’s hand, and then decides she can just blame it on the hormones if Daenerys denies her. Daenerys only grips Sansa’s hand tighter. “We will be your strongest allies.”

“And I will be yours,” Daenerys whispers.

 

* * *

 

 

Thirty-eight years later, Jon succumbs to a fever in his sleep. He has been sick for days, and Sansa has called the children who don’t live in Winterfell home.

She sends ravens to Rickon and Arya, as well, but Bran tells her that Arya is in Essos and won’t make it back in time, and that Rickon will not be able to get away from King’s Landing.

Jon can hardly open his eyes enough to speak with them, but he smiles at what his five children tell him, and he grips their hands with as much strength as he can muster.

When they go to their rooms for the night, Sansa stays with her husband.

He is feverish and delirious, mumbling incoherently. He still runs his hand down her back, fingering her braid whenever he has the lucidity to do so. 

When she thinks he’s gone to sleep, she hears him say, “I will forever be thankful the gods gave us so many more years together, my sweet girl.”

“It is the greatest gift anyone has ever been given,” she agrees. “We have so many beautiful children, and grandchildren. We saved so much of our family.”

“We saved everyone,” he mumbles, and then starts mumbling in riddles again, delirious and unaware of his surroundings.

“You saved me,” she whispers against his chest.

He dies in her arms, only an hour later. She cries, but she mostly just feels so grateful for the gift she has been given.

Her last words are “I love you”, and she dies that night too, from heartbreak and an unwillingness to live without him.

They never tell anyone else their secret, not even their siblings. Their children bury them under Winterfell.

Up above, the gods smile down at the Stark family.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, so, it wasn't until I finished it that I realised I didn't really put any of siblings in. It really is just 12k focussing on Jon and Sansa's relationship haha. Annndd I know there are a lot of plot holes, but lets pretend there isn't


End file.
